


Renew (Luminous But Not Clear)

by librata



Series: Unallied with Definite Form [1]
Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Charles Xavier in a Wheelchair, Erik Lehnsherr Loves Charles Xavier, Erik Logic Is The Best Logic, Fluff and Angst, Hope, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 10:35:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28829769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/librata/pseuds/librata
Summary: Decades have passed. Scars have been etched into skin and souls.Together, Charles and Erik arrive in Genosha.
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier
Series: Unallied with Definite Form [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2113851
Comments: 11
Kudos: 57
Collections: X-Men X-Traordinaire





	Renew (Luminous But Not Clear)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [X-Men X-Traordinaire's](https://discord.gg/g4g5efhN) monthly creative challenge.
> 
> January's prompt is: Renew
> 
> Art by me!

_Veil after veil of thin dusky gauze is lifted, and by degrees the forms and colours of things are restored to them, and we watch the dawn remaking the world in its antique pattern._

— Oscar Wilde, _The Portrait of Dorian Gray_

The feeling works its way into Erik’s body like a virus. A foreign enemy laying siege to his nerves, his defenses grievously unprepared to quash it before it spreads, mutates, stakes its claim with the threat of permanence in his soul.

Nervous. Erik is nervous.

He’s been nervous before, of course, but different veins of nervous. Noisy onslaughts of “what ifs” racing around his head before a mission can make him feel cagey, but his rational self always tamps that down fairly quickly. Or when something goes wrong and a new course of action suddenly becomes prudent, Erik, too, feels that fleeting panic, that momentary sensation of being abandoned or adrift before he can collect his thoughts into order again.

No, he’s not cagey right now. He’s not panicking. He’s nervous.

In the co-pilot’s seat at his right, Charles is still asleep, cheek resting on the small window to the sky, which teases at morning with the subtlest hint of purple amidst an inky black. He has changed remarkably in the interluding years between their last encounter; his bald head looks less like an accident and more a choice, his shoulders and chest ripple with bands of muscle that had not been there before, his eyes cloud over with something that Erik did not yet understand whenever their conversations peter into silence. Charles had always exuded confidence, but now, Erik is enveloped in it.

Even as he sleeps, his presence is felt, as if the air he takes up is displaced and pushed toward Erik, doubling down around him. Erik has imagined some iteration of this moment for years—different years across different decades, but years nonetheless—but now that he’s here, he doesn’t quite know what to make of it. And that’s setting Erik’s nerves on end, manifest as a subtle quaking in his gut, a rhythmic tap against the yoke of the plane.

Erik had offered to wrangle one of the teleporters into getting them here, but Charles had insisted they do it “the old fashioned way,” and while Erik had chided Charles for his outmoded practices, he’s also glad that they’re on the small jet now, the flashing lights of the Genoshan airstrip faintly visible across the dark water. The flight had bought them time. Time to chat about nothing and everything all at once, to argue and debate, to sit in silent stretches beside each other, Erik lazily guiding the plane as Charles gazed out the window into the deep night. There hadn’t been any way of knowing what went on in that head of his. Sometimes, during moments like these, Erik wants to exchange mutations.

Genosha looms close, now. Erik wishes that it didn’t, that they had more time to spend in the plane, this strange non-place, where commitment doesn’t have to exist and they can’t _do_ anything but sit and imagine.

The hands on his watch indicate that it’s just past 5:00am, that the island’s inhabitants will soon begin to stir in their habitations, whir to life, embark for their day’s work of harvesting, manufacturing, teaching, or organizing. While there are few official roles and titles on Genosha, the population operates on a level of trust and duty. Inhabitants contribute however they can, and, despite his role as one of the purveyors of this philosophy, Erik is regularly awestruck by the _ease_ with which his compatriots fall into step.

It’s a far different world than the one Charles knows.

Erik gently lowers the plane into Genoshan airspace. As he does, a stray pocket of turbulence jolts the craft sideways and shocks Charles out of his slumber. His eyes are bleary, and then confused, as if he has no recollection of where he is, but then they settle into their wise and practiced fix.

“A man called Derek is wondering why in the world you chose to arrive so early,” Charles says by way of greeting. His lilac sweater hugs his chest and shoulders snugly, celebrating the muscles underneath. Erik has to work not to stare. “He’s planning on confronting you this afternoon, demanding that you allow him to relocate to the far side of the village, so help him God.”

Erik had forgotten how strong Charles is, how easily he can flex his telepathy and pluck entire consciousnesses from minds still miles away. Or perhaps, he hasn’t spent _time_ with Charles since his mutation matured like this. Time where they weren’t on opposite sides of a battlefield, of the government, of a prison cell. It’s been decades, Erik realizes, since he’s spent enough time with Charles to even witness such a casual exercise of power.

He wonders how else Charles will surprise him. Because, time is all they have, now.

“Bastard’s been whinging since the airstrip went in last year,” Erik replies, forcing his eyes ahead. “We’ve had a total of four flights land on it, and he’s been acting put-upon by it since.”

He regrets the words instantly. So careful they had been to avoid mention of things past, of beaches and Washington D.C. and Cairo and of helicopters plaintively ignoring the designated landing zone for aircrafts in favor of the village square. Charles knows, of course, what had transpired on Genosha a mere month-and-a-half ago, and Erik has been purposeful in his avoidance. He hasn’t told Charles that they’re still rebuilding. Hasn’t told him that they’re still in talks with the U.S. government regarding land and air rights, regarding reparations.

If Charles’s mind is in the same place, however, he doesn’t show it, and instead straightens up in his seat. Erik’s eyes detect a flash of pain on Charles’s face—it’s ephemeral, barely there, but Erik sees it nonetheless, and he remembers something he overheard Hank say a decade ago when he’d stayed at the mansion to help rebuild it, something about Charles needing to stretch more or be more vigilant with physical therapy, something about Charles not getting any younger.

He thinks of their cargo. Four crates of Charles’s things, mostly books, and three wheelchairs. One is large and mechanized, sleek and so smooth it seems to float when Charles uses it. Another is smaller with a low back, light enough for Charles to propel it easily with his arms but sturdy enough to absorb a variety of terrain. The third is stiff and mostly plastic, and when Erik had cocked an eyebrow at it, as it’s so unlike the other two which seem engineered for optimum mobility, Charles had shrugged and said only two words; “for showering.”

His home— _their_ home, he realizes with that same stream of nerves—is well-equipped. He hadn’t known it at the time, but as Erik was furnishing it, he’d curated his space for accessibility. Low surfaces, wide doorways, tables without chairs. Spartan as he is, his home has the largest bathroom on Genosha with a barrier-free shower and low sink. It hadn’t even been a fully conscious choice, save for the transitory glimpses of wheels against the cement floors, sure hands gripped tight around a book, creamy skin and piercing eyes slotted beside him on the low, wide bed. No, it hadn’t been entirely deliberate, but Erik knows that it hadn’t been entirely accidental, either.

They say nothing for a minute more, which allows Erik the time to focus on grounding the plane on the airstrip. The wheels come down before Erik raises both of his hands and closes his eyes, easing the plane to a halt.

The plane settles.

“A perfect landing,” Charles comments beside him, and Erik opens his eyes after realizing they’re still shut. “You would have made a great pilot, darling.”

Despite the mounting twist in his gut, Erik smirks. “Better than Hank?”

“Leagues better.”

Erik moves quickly then, hoping to prevent any lingering thoughts about Hank McCoy from hanging between them for too long. He knows that they still pain Charles. Their seatbelts unsnap with a flick of Erik’s wrist, and the door pops open to allow the steep, narrow stairs to lower to the ground.

Charles glances over his shoulder, quirks his lips to the side as if in thought, and then hums. “Grab my chair, will you? The small one.”

Erik does, carefully unfolding the low-backed manual chair outside of the cockpit. He expects to see annoyance when Charles realizes that he’ll need to be helped into it but instead is met with a serene face and raised arms, as if this is a practiced, well-trod routine. Charles is heavier than he looks, but it’s a quick, painless exchange and within seconds, Charles is adjusting his legs, straightening his feet out on the footplate, smoothing his rumpled sweater.

“Ready?” Erik asks, and he isn’t exactly sure who he’s asking.

“Indeed.”

His metalsense wrapped tightly around Charles’s chair, Erik begins the descent down the stairwell. The early morning air is crisp, but there is a promise of pleasantness in the light breeze that tickles the treetops. His hands unfold, and, with more concentration than he had used when landing the plane, Erik lifts the wheelchair from the cabin and pulls it outside, guiding it down the stairs behind him until all four wheels rest balanced on the concrete. Only when he’s certain that gravity will not betray him does he release the chair.

Charles wheels forward a foot, and then stops, gazing across the plain. Erik stands just behind him and follows his line of sight until it rests on the village, which seems small and quiet from this distance. Above them, the sky is still indigo and dazzled with stars, but it lightens in grades of deep blues, light purples, rich reds, and finally, a peachy cream that spills across the plain and bathes the entire island in a low, dusty light.

“It’s beautiful, Erik,” Charles says at last, and when Erik tilts his head downward, he can see that a small, contented smile rests on Charles’s lips.

“It is,” he agrees. The sun has crept above the horizon now, and warmth touches his bones underneath his own navy sweater. He watches Charles close his eyes as the sunlight blooms over his face, basking in the heat, enjoying a silent, interminable moment for himself. Once more, Erik finds himself yearning for access to Charles’s thoughts.

 _You’ve been nervous since we left Westchester,_ Charles’s voice echoes in his head and for some reason, this feels more comfortable, more natural than his spoken voice. _Why?_

It isn’t surprising that Charles had felt his tension. Erik expects that, even without his telepathy, he would be a strong enough empath to understand. _I’m sure you could find out._

 _I tried,_ Charles replies, eyes still closed against the sunlight. _I don’t know if_ you _even know why_.

Erik frowns to himself. Charles is right, he isn’t sure why he feels this way. It’s not fear that his Genoshan compatriots won’t accept Charles—he’s more comfortable in interpersonal conflict than he is in any harmonious setting and he’s always been that way. It isn’t even the fear that he and Charles won’t be able to coexist with each other. The decades of fighting, of wounding, of near-death experiences at each other’s hands may point to the contrary, but Erik has never been worried about that. They both decided that they wanted to coexist, and so they would. Erik knew they would.

 _It’s a restart,_ he replies at last, folding his arms over his chest. _A do-over, I suppose. I can’t help but feel slightly nervous._

_Nervous that it won’t take the course you’re hoping?_

_Mm._

They’re both silent for a spell. Charles’s eyes are open again, and they remain there, standing and sitting, watching the meringue sun grow larger and larger.

 _It’s not a restart,_ says Charles at last, craning his neck ever so much to meet Erik’s eyes. In this light, they have the same blue as the sea. _It’s a renewal. Everything is the same as it was, but we’re recommitting. Reinvesting. Renewing._

A renewal. Genosha is as it had been yesterday. Westchester, too. Their past still stretches behind them and hangs between them, as true and palpable as ever. There’s no erasing or ignoring it, and there’s no reason to, because it’s the most robust thing that holds the both of them together, that keeps them present in each other’s lives, that guided them to this very moment.

Everything is the same as it was, Charles had said.

 _A renewal,_ Erik replies, and the world feels better once he asserts it. It’s a word that doesn’t complement the knot of nerves in his stomach, a word which has tendrils that can slowly untie them. That begin to do just that in that very moment.

He smiles then, the first unforced smile since departing Westchester. His palm finds its way to Charles’s shoulder, and then Charles lifts his hand to encircle Erik’s fingers with his own.

Everything is the same as it was. Maybe Erik’s house is perfect for Charles and maybe it isn’t, maybe Charles will adapt quickly to Genoshan life or he won’t, maybe their individual hurts from storied pasts will surface at times and they’ll argue, fight, seethe, and ache at each other, with each other, for and against each other. Maybe it will all happen and maybe none of it will, and Erik knows they will weather it regardless. It isn’t a restart.

“I have some Earl Grey from England at the house,” says Erik out loud, tightening his fingers around Charles’s shoulder. “Shall we have some breakfast before we find a place to store your library?”

Charles smiles and squeezes back before he pulls his hand away to grip his wheels once more. “I didn’t know you were such a globalist, darling.”

“I’m not,” Erik replies as they both move toward the village.

In his periphery, Charles beams, a wide, enlivening grin that’s both familiar and refreshing all at once.

A renewal.

**Author's Note:**

> Commint??!?!??
> 
> If you want to participate in this challenge, other fun challenges, or simply meet some cool X-Men fans, join our [Discord](https://discord.gg/g4g5efhN) here!


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